A Life About to Start
by gaavroche
Summary: If there was one thing Enjolras refused above all, it was distractions, and unfortunately, the Thénardier girl was exactly that. E/É, rated M for later scenes. Also, will stray away from canon.
1. Duty

**A Life About to Start When Tomorrow Comes**

**Enjolras/Éponine**

_(A/N: The cast members I have in mind for this are from the movie that just came out – therefore Marius is a redhead, Enjolras is a blonde, etc. Thank you!)_

Chapter 1: Duty

Her chest heaved and her forehead was slick with a mixture of sweat and rain as Éponine Thénardier dashed through the streets of Paris in the ever-present downpour.

_"Ponine, who was that girl?"_

Her feet hit the wet cobblestones, nearly causing her to slide off them, but years of rushing up and down alleyways had taught her to keep her balance.

_"Do this for me, Éponine. Discover where she lives."_

Éponine fought to keep the words out of her mind as she replayed the conversation, but the next sentence in the conversation came nonetheless: _"See, I told you so; there's lots of things I know."_

The look in Marius' eyes when he had seen Cosette – for Éponine was sure that was who the mysterious girl was – broke more than her heart. It shattered her soul. And of all people, of all the women in Paris, it had to be Cosette... little, Lark Cosette, who Éponine teased and prodded at when she was a girl. Who had nothing when she had everything. Now, with the blonde dressed in the style of the bourgeoisie, with clean hair and a healthy amount of flesh clinging to her bones, Éponine had the sinking feeling the old adage was right – what went around really did come around.

She turned the corner, and there it was – the house. She watched as Cosette and the former mayor – Éponine wasn't even sure of his name anymore, it seemed to change every day – climb out of their carriage and swiftly dash into the safety of the house, assuming that no one had seen them. But Éponine knew enough, and though it would kill her, she wanted to see that smile on Marius' face, just once more. With only the smallest of hesitations, she turned around and scurried back into the shadows, hurrying to the café to return the news.

* * *

Enjolras's speeches were always something to praise, but that evening, he was truly in top form.

He raved about revolution, about the future Republic and the need to keep the glory of France and her people alive. His green eyes were animated as his hands gestured left and right, and he was so absorbed into his own thoughts that it wasn't until he asked them a question – "For who do we fight, les amis, if not for the Patria?" – and was greeted with nothing but the chattering of the men in the room.

His brown creased into a frown as Enjolras located the source of the talk and laughter – one of his (unfortunately) closest and best friends, a man he would call his brother without a second thought – Marius Pontmercy. Switching into the conversation that was being had, Enjolras was mildly disgusted by what he heard. Words about some girl – "hair of spun gold, eyes blue as the sky in summer", all that usual nonsense – followed by some comment from a barely conscious Grantaire about Dom Juan and never believing Marius was capable of falling for a woman.

The latter was something Théodore Enjolras had previously admired about his friend. He himself was no stranger to women – he had bedded a few, though he hardly felt anything emotional towards a lady. While the other men kept mistresses and spoke of the beauties they had at night between the sheets, Marius and he were the two who kept their minds on what was important – the revolution. But now that his friend was head over heels for this bourgeois girl, Enjolras was the only one to have not yet fallen into a woman's prey.

And he was determined to keep it that way.

After all, his love was France, the Patria, a better world for his country and his people. He didn't need a woman if he had that.

Enjolras jumped from the table he had been standing on during his ignored speech, and in two long strides he was next to the freckled Marius. With a few snide comments towards Grantaire (who only smirked and drank a bit more from his bottle), he managed to remind the room of their priorities.

Patria, then pussy.

That was the order things ought to be in.

And though les Amis de l'ABC seemed to be moved by his words, Enjolras had no doubt they would return to their homes and their apartments and their flats and have their share of a woman.

If only his men thought the way he did.

* * *

Her heel was bleeding after having slipped on a wet cobblestone, feet barely covered by some loose cloth sewn to vaguely resemble shoes, but Éponine made it to the café, stumbling into the wonderfully dry building and rushing up the stairs, not caring to pick up her skirt in order not to trip. She arrived, and the men were jolly as ever.

Didn't they know the revolution wouldn't solve anything? Parisians were cowards, at best. The people cared more about their families than the country's well-being. The men didn't want their wives and children to be left to their own devices if they were to fall in battle. They wouldn't show when the time came, she knew it.

Her heart sunk as she spotted Gavroche, laughing at something Combeferre had said. Her younger brother was much more courageous than she was. She couldn't risk leaving her family, it wasn't possible for her. But Gavroche was free, and therefore he was happy, and Éponine couldn't help but feel jealous.

Her heart only sunk further when she caught sight of Marius, his eyes animated in such a way that she knew the topic of his conversation must be the beauty he had seen that day – _darling Cosette_. She shut her eyes and pretended that each time he described her hair, he spoke of dark, nearly chocolate-brown locks, and her eyes were grey, not blue, and her skin wasn't so fair, but it was hardy and strong and –

"Ponine!" Éponine snapped out of her reverie as she heard the familiar voice burst out of the familiar lips on the familiar boy. He rushed towards her, disregarding his friends' looks, and for a moment Éponine felt truly special in the eyes of Monsieur Marius.

He rushed to her side and looked her in the eyes, and she felt her heart squeeze and yank and pull. "Ponine, did you find it?"

She hated herself for doing it – really, she did – but Éponine bit her lip and bobbed her head once in a nod.

A grin, even larger than the before, exploded on his face, and with a quick look over his shoulder at the Amis to make sure no one was watching (everyone was, but turned away the moment he checked), Marius followed the girl out of the café.

* * *

Enjolras had a particularly keen eye, but that wasn't what allowed him to see Marius slip out the door. There was a girl with him, and though she certainly wasn't the bourgeois girl he was insane about, she had a sort of aura of beauty radiating off of her, despite the street grime and the skirt and chemise she wore – hardly appropriate clothing, but she clearly didn't have a choice in the matter.

She had been to meetings quite a few times, and Gavroche seemed to know her well. He thought she came mostly for Marius, rather than the actual idea behind each meeting, and spent most of the meeting watching him, lost in her own thoughts.

For the life of him, Enjolras couldn't remember her name. It was... disgraceful, to say the absolute least. He was fighting for the poor to be recognised and helped, rather than ignored and berated, and yet he couldn't remember this lower-class woman's name. He knew Marius had introduced them once upon a time, something with an E...

Émilie?

Elvire?

Émmeline?

Shaking his blonde head clear of the thoughts, Enjolras sat at the table and pulled out his textbook, preparing his schoolwork – he was, by his father's request, a scholar of the law – and set about writing his paper. He would ask Marius her name when he returned.

* * *

Curled up in a corner of some deserted alley, Éponine hardly felt a thing except distinct _pain._ There was a pain aching from her heart, stinging on her cheek, and in her bones. It was as if she couldn't escape from it.

She rubbed at her cheek, and as she did so, the feeling and the sound of her father slapping her came swiftly, and startled by the sudden recollection, Éponine dropped her hand. Her tears tasted salty on her tongue, and she barely noticed her shivers as the wind blew against her wet skin, cooling her off further than before. Night in Paris was particularly cruel, especially for a young street urchin, and when she heard footsteps echo off of the walls, Éponine instinctively brought her hands up to cover herself, still sniffling.

"Non, monsieur," she begged, knowing she didn't sound quite as intimidating as she usually did, with the tears streaming down her face. She turned her face towards the wall, determined not to meet this stranger's eye. "Not tonight."

* * *

Sobbing.

And not just any kind of sobbing. The sound Enjolras had stumbled upon on his way to his flat was the heart-wrenching kind of sobbing, that he had never experienced but as he stood there, at the end of a long, dark alley, he recognised it instantly.

It sounded as if the victim was hopeless. As if there were nothing left.

Which was preposterous. There was always France.

But this desperate sound, he couldn't ignore it. Ignoring it meant being just like the king, and the policemen, and everyone who just walked away from those in need without a second thought. Ignore the horrible wails would be going against everything Enjolras believed in.

So, with a determined mind and a ready step, he turned into the alley.

In a pile of misery sat Marius' shadow, her face turned away as she muttered something, something he couldn't quite hear, even as he got closer.

Enjolras cleared his throat. The muttering stopped, but besides that, no reaction. He contemplated nudging her with his foot, to make sure she was alive, but he noticed her shivers. She was actually shivering too much, and Enjolras automatically took off his jacket and draped it over her trembling body.

The least he was expecting from that was a scream, but oh, what a scream it was. It must have pierced the walls and woken up the men lying on their whores in the brothel next door. Enjolras's eyes widened and he attempted to shush her, but the girl shook her head wildly and threw his jacket off of her.

And now is as good a time as ever to mention that in that dark, wet alley, he first fully noticed her beauty. Her hair was sticking to her face, her grey orbs were widened and urgent, and the whites around them were bloodshot. The clothes she wore – the same chemise and skirt she had been wearing in the café – were disastrous, covered in mud and torn. She wasn't the stereotypical sort of damsel in distress, and she certainly didn't look particularly attractive when she cried. Enjolras had read countless poems about maidens weeping in the moonlight, each resembling like a goddess from Greek mythology, but this girl was nothing like that. Her face was screwed up into a tragic sort of grimace, but somehow... it was alluring. A tragic sort of beauty.

"Mademoiselle, I-"

She cut him off – no one had ever cut Enjolras off. Ever. "No, no, I... no." Leaving his jacket in a pile of mud, she ran out of the alley and disappeared, and despite his best judgement, the blonde boy did not follow her.


	2. Fury

_(A/N: More to say this time. First of all, I realised I had forgotten the disclaimer, so, y'know. I don't own Les Mis, I'm not Victor Hugo, etc. Second, thank you so much for all of the reviews and follows! So many in less than 24 hours, I'm honestly amazed. Third, it definitely won't be this fast most of the time when I update, I just had this next chapter ready in my mind and all I had to do was put it to paper. And last, you may or may not have noticed the title change. "A Life About to Start When Tomorrow Comes" was a bit too long, so I shortened it to "A Life About to Start", or, if you have a particular liking for acronyms, LATS. On with the story ~)_

Chapter 2: Fury

Everything was disgustingly familiar. From the lice in the bed crawling over Éponine's skin, to the sounds coming out of her mouth – manufactured, as usual, since her customers always paid more when she sounded as if she were actually enjoying it. Even the men were familiar. This particular one – by the name of Philippe Bouchard – was a blacksmith, with a wife who was forced into the marriage when it was discovered she could not bear children. He didn't speak much, which Éponine appreciated. Some of the newcomers – as rare as they were, considering she had repeating customers more often than not – tried to engage her in conversation. Nothing was more irritating. She was there because she needed to give her father so that she wouldn't go without meals for a day.

That was it. There was no fun, no enjoyment, no pleasure in it for poor Ponine.

That was the main reason she allowed things like this to happen. The money went to her father, but she was allowed a piece of bread and a night without a fist laid on her. It was, in some ways, her only solace.

She used to have Marius. No longer.

Bouchard finished, and Éponine pretended to almost subconsciously. His large frame shadowed her from the dim candle lighting the room, but when he clambered off of her, she found herself squinting anyway. He grunted and tossed two coins – one silver, one copper – at her feet as she remained in the bed.

She waited for him to be safely gone before grabbing the coins and stuffing them into her chemise.

Her work was done.

* * *

In Enjolras's eyes, Marius was first and foremost an idiot.

He was, luckily, rid of his best friend as he walked along the Seine, but the meeting at the café guaranteed all suspicions of Marius' idiocy. That girl from the night before – Enjolras still didn't know her name – was there, same as ever, except she appeared... shaken.

Something to do with him?

In all honesty, Enjolras had no idea what he had done to earn such a reaction from the girl. He offered her his jacket to keep warm. It was gentlemanly. It was courteous. It was everything he didn't do for women, damn it, and she didn't seem to appreciate what that meant.

Instead, she screeched.

Enjolras scoffed at the memory. _Ungrateful wench._

He scrunched his nose slightly as he watched the water from where he stood on the bridge and turned his mind to thoughts he much preferred – thoughts of the Republic. Lamarque was dead. Soon, it would be time to stand up, to fight. They'd build a barricade at the café and defend the poor, and the people of Paris would join them, exactly as they had promised.

The thought did lift his spirits. He could practically _taste_ the freedom.

He shook his head, clearing that last thought. Enjolras was fortunate, much more so than most of Paris. Although his family wasn't nearly as rich as the Pontmercys, they did have enough to send him to school and still have food on the table. He lived under a roof – yes, his life was much better than that of others. He didn't lack much freedom, it was them.

The wind was harsh, blowing his hair into his eyes as he leaned onto the edge of the Pont d'Arcole, enveloped in his thoughts. The thoughts that only come at night, when you are alone and all is quiet; thoughts that seem so big and important that you insist on sharing them... until you wake up the next morning, and forget them.

Was the Revolution wise?

What were they going to do after they win – _if_ they win?

And worse, one he never wanted to consider, but had to – who would die?

With their lack of trained men, and the number of the group being quite small – thus far, Enjolras was still determined to believe that the people would rise – it was impossible to avoid the fact that not everyone would live. Would Joly die? Courfeyrac? Jehan? Pontmercy, Combeferre, Grantaire? Gavroche? _Will I die?_ His formerly calm face merged into a frown. It was unimaginable. Incomprehensible. Probable.

"M'sieur, ya wouldn't happ'n ta hav a coppa ta spare, would'ya?"

Enjolras turned to see a stooped woman, tiny and frail in her old age, the tips of her fingers perfect circles from hard labour. He offered the smallest of smiles and pulled out a coin, offering it to her. In a world of thieves – one he was accustomed to, even if he hadn't experienced thievery so much – it wasn't possible to trust everyone, but an old woman, too fragile to run away? He had to oblige.

The woman offered him a smile, showing rotten, broken, and mostly missing teeth, but in that smile, there was something that made Enjolras feel... hope. Hope that his men wouldn't fail. Hope that he wouldn't lose a soul. Hope that the world would mend itself.

Hope, really, was all he needed.

* * *

Hopeless.

Éponine was hopeless, she realised, not for the first time, as she wandered the streets of the city, putting off her arrival home for as long as possible. In typical, good-for-nothing, Éponine Thénardier style, she had managed to get the two coins she had earned that night stolen from her.

Hopeless.

Her stomach complained and she groaned, chewing at her lip, hoping she could fool her body into thinking she was eating. She had gone without meals the day before after she had stayed too long at the café, and then taken Marius to meet Cosette, and then got caught up in the alley, and missed her customer.

Two days in a row. (_Hopeless_, a voice in her mind reminded her.)

Why had she taken Marius to meet the beauty? (_Hopeless_.) She could have taken him to an abandoned apartment, pretended she had been here but had left suddenly – made up some excuse. (_Hopeless_.) She might still have him, then.

And the alley. Éponine thought it was a man searching for a whore... no doubt it was. The voice was horrendously familiar, but, then again, wasn't everything? (_Hopeless_.) Her life was a repeat of constant events – a man would buy her for an hour or two, and she'd wake up alone, with some coins on the bed. (_Hopeless_.) She would dress, make her way home in the dark, and drop off the money with her father. A lecture would follow – why didn't you take more, why didn't you please him further, et cetera – followed by a bowl of suspicious-looking broth. (_Hopeless_.) She would leave home and wander, beg when she found someone with a nice hat, or some other symbol of wealth, and eventually find herself at the café. (_Hopeless_.) Marius would ask her to reread some love letter he had written to Cosette (she was, surprisingly, a fair bit literate, after Marius insisted to teach her), and she would oblige, because how could she possibly refuse, when he had such a bright grin on her face? The meeting would end, she would leave, and make her way to the bridge.

Life was always better at the bridge.

She had time, usually, between the meetings and her customers – not much more than an hour and a half. The bridge – more specifically known as the Pont d'Arcole – allowed Éponine to see the stars, to have time to herself, and, most importantly, to pretend. She could imagine she was rich, wearing silks and fur and not allowing a single chill to reach her skin. She could be a singer, a prima donna at the beautiful Parisian opera.

And of course, in each, she had a husband – one with familiar red hair, and freckles dotting every inch of his skin.

Éponine turned onto the bridge, and spotted a man – blonde hair, tall – leaning onto the edge, watching something with a determined gaze.

Again, there was familiarity.

She hated it.

What she did not hate, however, was the simple fact that he was alone. He seemed to not mind being alone. Of course, she did not mean loneliness – there was a severe difference between being alone and being on your own. But he seemed to revel in the solitude, and as much as she respected that, Éponine suddenly had an urge to disrupt it – like the first day of snow, when it looks so beautiful and perfect, but you simply can't help rushing into it and jumping and destroying it all.

"B'jour," she greeted, wincing slightly at the common street accent that escaped her lips. He seemed distinguished, she was anything but.

He turned slightly, and familiarity only increased at the sight of his green eyes. There was something... uncomfortable about them, but Éponine ignored the knot in her stomach.

"Bon soir," the man replied, looking shocked, and for the life of her, Éponine couldn't imagine why.

* * *

At that one, simple, near-word, Enjolras's mind went blank.

She had screamed at him.

She was _here_.

Why?

He replied as politely as he could, and as both of them retreated into silence, he tried to evaluate her mental state.

No twitching. No pupils dilating. No sudden outbursts.

Strange.

It hit him a good ten minutes of silence later – she didn't know. She couldn't. Why would she have come, if she knew?

He focused his mind to the night before. Her face was towards the wall. She threw his coat off – she must not have even bothered to look at it, let alone remember it.

_She didn't know who he was._

The knowledge sunk into him, and Enjolras debated over his next move. Stay quiet? Speak? Move?

"My name is Enjolras," he blurted. Very unlike himself to blurt, but this wasn't a situation he was used to. "Théodore Enjolras."

The brunette seemed shocked by the sudden words. "Éponine. I'd... rather not share my last name."

"Thénardier," he blurted again, suddenly remembering Marius introducing them all that time ago. "Your brother... he's in les Amis de l'ABC. Gavroche."

Her eyes turned to sadness; such a deep and unexplainable sadness that Enjolras could not imagine the thoughts behind them. "Enjolras. Yes, I remember you, you're... Marius' friend, aren't you."

"Mhm."

Silence.

And then, shock.

* * *

Perfectly lovely name, Théodore. Éponine could never figure out why les Amis would call Marius and Jehan by their names and nicknames, but the rest were referred to by their last names. She hardly ever heard someone call Marius simply "Pontmercy". It just wasn't done.

Perhaps she'd call this Enjolras by his Christian name.

Only in her head, though. She couldn't call him anything else unless she was granted permission.

Two and two came together. The voice. The jacket... it was bright red, and that was all she had remembered about it from the night before. The sudden reaction when she had come to speak with him...

"It was you!"

In her defense, at least she didn't shout this time.

"You! You came last night, you're Marius' _friend_, you came and tried to get me to... to..." She couldn't say it. No matter how many times Éponine had done it, she couldn't say the words. "You."

Enjolras didn't seem to understand, but began to speak anyhow. "I simply tried to help, mademoiselle," he told her, an edge of bitterness to his voice.

"I'm not a _mademoiselle_," she snapped back – the word reminded her too much of Cosette – "and you did nothing of the sort, thank you very much. You speak of wars to be won, of saving people from poverty – but what did you do with me? You didn't even think of helping me! You tried to get me... away!" Damn it all, she still couldn't say it.

The man – much taller than she was, and that was saying something – seemed offended by her words, and didn't make an effort to hide it. "I draped my coat over your body!"

"An attempt to lure me!"

"How would that _work_?"

"I'm not some damsel in distress!"

"I had no idea who you were!"

"Marius' _best friend_, mon Dieu!"

"The war _will_ be won!"

"Is that your main concern at the moment?"

"It very well should be yours, as well!"

"You blind, blind man! Parisians won't stand for war!"

The last words made him stop, but once Éponine had started, she couldn't stop. "They're afraid, all of them! You think the men will drop everything – wives, families, children – to fight for a war that isn't even guaranteed in their favour? No one will leave their houses that day, I promise you. You live in a city built on tyranny and fear and cowardice, Théodore Enjolras, and don't you forget that – it might get you killed someday."

The brilliant green eyes watched her, blinked once, twice, before the previous venom sunk back into them. "You know nothing about the people of Paris," he sneered, anger seething out of him.

"I know more than you'd believe," Éponine challenged him, injecting enough poison into her own words to rival his.

"You're a woman. What do you know about war?"

_Crack_.

* * *

He had it coming, the slap.

Enjolras couldn't stop the words from tumbling out. Every doubt that had ever formed in his mind was being uttered by this... _Thénardier_ woman, and he couldn't take it. It hurt his pride, his confidence, and that precious hope.

He rubbed his cheek. The girl still watched him with a challenging eye, daring him to do anything about the hit, but her shoulders had slumped, and she seemed to be quivering. Almost expecting him to hit back.

And even with so much fury as he was containing in that very moment, he wouldn't dare.

Enjolras simply turned and departed, leaving the girl alone.

It seemed to be a habit of his, leaving Éponine Thénardier in emotional distress.


	3. Daring

_(A/N: Again, relatively fast update. I really hope I'm not getting you to expect this of me, but wow, okay. Again, thank you so much for the reviews, I love hearing from you guys! I'd be happy to hear any constructive criticism or whatever you'd like to share. Also, the Enjolras portions might tend to be longer than the Éponine parts – I find it easier to write in his point of view? Sorry for those who might prefer her sections!_

_Also, to "Guest" reviewer: I'm sorry! I thought Sam Barks's eyes looked grey, and my inner-mind Éponine has grey eyes, so I might not change it. If it really is bothering you, I hate to distract you from the actual story, and I'll switch it right away. Thanks for pointing it out!)_

Chapter 3: Daring

"Marius, your supposed _friend_ is impossible."

The redhead looked up from the table in the empty café (there was rarely anyone there so early in the day) and raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes, sitting next to him. "Thénardier."

Marius's eyes widened slightly, looking interested in the direction this conversation was going. "Éponine? She wouldn't hurt a fly."

"She wouldn't hurt _you_," Enjolras retorted, pulling out his well-worn copy of _Les Six livres de la République_ – a book written by a man after his own heart, if only born three hundred years earlier – and fingered the pages, opening it to where he had left it off, intending to end the conversation there.

Of course, Marius had no such intent. "What do you mean?"

Biting back the words that so easily jumped to his tongue – _"she loves you, it's clear as day"_ – Enjolras settled instead for a different reply. "She slapped me."

The smallest of frowns marred the other's face. "No, not Éponine. You must be thinking of someone else."

"She gave me her name," he insisted, keeping his eyes on the words, trying to the best of his ability to give Marius a clear sign that their discussion was over (despite Enjolras being the one to start it in the first place).

"Haven't I introduced you two?"

Enjolras waved his hand, dismissing the comment. "Of course, years ago. I haven't exactly spoken to her often." He raised the book to be in front of his face, effectively blocking his friend from view, in a desperate attempt to convince him to drop the subject.

Marius persisted – either because he was stubborn or because he was truly oblivious. Enjolras honestly couldn't tell which it was. "But why would she slap you? What could you have possibly done?"

"She said the people wouldn't fight!"

"I... I don't understa-"

Enjolras dropped his book, now looking Marius straight in the eye. If a conversation was what he wanted, it was what he was going to get. "She said that when the time came for it, the people wouldn't stand up and fight at the barricade. That the revolution was doomed to fail."

"She knows more about the people of Paris than either of us do," Marius said in a soft voice, attempting to console but only succeeding in enraging his friend further.

"What makes you say that?"

"She's a _Thénardier_, for heaven's sake."

Enjolras scoffed. "I suppose the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, then."

Marius frowned. "I'd hardly say that. You've met Gavroche."

Enjolras hated to admit it, but really, he did have a point there. "Gavroche is the black sheep of the family."

"Perhaps there are two."

"Nevertheless," the blonde hurriedly cut in, determined not to let Marius win the argument, "how could she possibly dare to say things like that?"

"_Dare_? Honestly, Enjolras, you're sounding more and more like those politicians you despise."

Out of all the people in the world, there was only one he couldn't fight, and that man was – unfortunately for Enjolras – completely and absolutely right.

He hated it.

* * *

"That Enjolras man is horrid."

Marius sighed almost imperceptibly. _Almost._

Éponine walked at a fast pace, her long legs (too long, in her opinion – her height rivaled that of most men) moving briskly through the streets. The rain had miraculously cleared, leaving a sky of low clouds, warning the city that the relief wouldn't last long. But she had decided to use the small amount of sun peeking through the thick clouds to her advantage – meaning, she was going to go on a walk with Marius.

Her heart still fluttered at his every move.

It was horrible.

He shook his head gently and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, underneath his jacket.

A brown jacket. Nice, despite its plain colour.

Or maybe the man wearing it made it nice.

Éponine scoffed to herself. _Don't be pathetic._

"I don't understand your hatred of each other," Marius said with the smallest of shrugs, turning his gaze towards the girl next to him.

She forced herself to breathe at a normal pace.

She was the _definition_ of pathetic.

She shrugged in reply, reaching up to adjust her hat to keep it from slipping from her head. "The things he said were rude, awful, and entirely uncalled for," Éponine said as nonchalantly as she could.

"What did he say?"

"Idiotic remarks. Things like, 'you don't know about the people of Paris', and 'a woman knows nothing about battles'. He's undeserving of your friendship, frankly-"

"Don't say that." The tone of Marius' voice was so cold, so firm, so unlike anything she had heard come from him before that Éponine stopped walking altogether and stared after his retreating back. It wasn't until he began talking again that she started to follow, having to take bigger steps to catch up. "He shouldn't have said those things, Ponine, but Enjolras is a brother to me."

A knot formed in her throat at the sound of her nickname, one that didn't quite fit coming out of anyone but Marius. She nodded. "Yes. Of course. I'm... I'm sorry, monsieur."

"No matter."

A minute or two passed in silence, and Éponine felt dread creeping up her bones. She and Marius had never shared an awkward moment.

It terrified her, to be completely honest.

First, Marius had found someone to love – to truly, deeply love. Someone who wasn't her. Cosette and he meeting was bad enough, from where Éponine stood. Then, she had the misfortune to bump into Théodore Enjolras a few times – both of which were traumatising in their own way. It hadn't been a good week for Éponine Thénardier.

* * *

It was time.

He felt it in his bones – it was finally _time_.

At the les Amis de l'ABC meeting, Enjolras spread the word.

One day left, and they would strike.

It was Lamarque's funeral come morning, and, as per usual when a military man with a high position passed away, there would be a procession down the main street until they reach Notre Dame for the ceremony. Everyone went to watch the procession. Lamarque was a good man, there was no doubt about it, and even the poorer people loved him – the streets would be filled.

The plan was perfect.

They would join the crowd and wait. Les Amis would let the carriage holding Lamarque pass, out of respect – after all, it was a sin to cause ill for the dead, and besides, he was respected. There was no reason to upset his spirit.

Once he had passed, and the string of rich lieutenants and colonels and everyone would follow... then it was time to strike.

Enjolras just had to wait for the sun to rise.

For once, he partook in the merriment. He didn't drink – he rarely drank, hated what it did to his self-control and it loosened his tongue more than he would like – but he laughed and grinned and joked with the others. He shared thoughtful conversations with Combeferre and Jehan about the future. Teased Marius about his lady love. Played cards with Gavroche (and managed to lose a fair bit of money doing so, but he was cheerful all the same). He even laughed at some of Grantaire's horrible puns.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so...

Free.

The feeling that had coursed through him at the sight of that elderly woman's grin – that amazing surge of hope – had come back like none before, and the Thénardier wench wasn't around to disrupt it.

Nothing could ruin that night.

Except the look of Marius's face.

He didn't say anything in front of the others, but every time he looked at Enjolras, there was such harsh, cold disappointment that Enjolras couldn't help but feel shameful about the night before.

Guilt was _not_ a feeling he was accustomed to, and he refused to feel it towards that woman.

Instead of suffering Marius's judgement on his own, Enjolras would only speak to the redhead if with other Amis, and then they'd only make fun of him about Cosette. There would be no time for drama in a day; they would be fighting for freedom.

Enjolras hated himself for his behaviour – towards his best friend, not Marius's stalker. It was cowardly.

He ignored the pain in his chest – some would call it remorse, he would roll his eyes at the idea – and took a small sip out of his bottle of wine. The sun just had to rise one last time, and he could prove her wrong – show her that Parisians truly care about their fate, that they would do anything to fight.

His head pounded and he groaned, rubbing his temples. It was going to be an early night.

* * *

Since an early age, Éponine had been shaping and perfecting her dream wedding.

It wasn't until the delicate age of twelve – delicate, because of the emotions that come with it, from thinking you know everything to finding out you know nothing – that a certain ginger-haired man was placed in her imagination as her groom, but she had been creating her ideal ceremony much earlier than that.

She would wear a beautiful white gown; a veil would sit in her impeccably clean and wonderfully styled hair. She would carry a bouquet – tiny pink and white roses, so small and fragile you could crush them just by holding one. And food: all the food she could imagine and more, from flaky pastries to hearty rabbit stews.

Most importantly, she would drop her wretched last name.

In a way, Éponine was truly envious of her brother – Gavroche had escaped their parents' tyranny, and now had thousands of friends and a chance to change things, despite his tender age. In other ways, however, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to be him.

He would be "Gavroche Thénardier" forever.

She and Azelma... they had a chance.

_Azelma_.

A Thénardier child her parents were actually proud of, and thoroughly missed, despite them being completely deceived by her. Azelma was sent to jail two years prior, caught pickpocketing. Their parents grieved over her leaving and being unable to send more money, but were glad she went the way she did. But Éponine and Azelma were good friends, the kinds of sisters who would braid each other's hair and whisper when it was dark about the boys of Paris. Éponine knew Azelma better than anyone else – Azelma made Éponine into who she was today. She introduced her to les Amis, to Marius, to the idea of a better future – to _having_ a future.

She was sentenced to thirteen years in jail for taking six coppers, three silvers, and one gold coin.

As it turned out, Azelma didn't have much of a chance.

_If she is alive_, Éponine reminded herself.

The thought of her sister dead sickened her. Not Azelma, never Azelma. When the household had caught a stomach bug of some sort, it was Azelma who remained healthy, who took care of everyone, even the parents she hated. Azelma was brave, she was capable of anything, she was clever, and she was gloriously beautiful, even with the street grime and mud caked onto her skin – she was everything Éponine wasn't.

Her heart ached, a feeling she was so accustomed to that Éponine almost didn't realise it had happened.

Shaking her brown head of hair from the poisons in her brain, she settled on a new train of thought – the general's funeral.

It was always a great opportunity to make money, when so many people were in one place at once. At least, her parents would say so. Éponine would likely be sent on a mission to either seduce or swipe, and either wasn't particularly tempting. But Lamarque, the man who had cared, was deserving of a day without crime, and she was determined to help in that.

She wouldn't steal, she wouldn't seduce. Not tomorrow.

Éponine finally reached the destination her feet were taking her to – the café. She had arrived there almost automatically, without her mind influencing her steps in the least. Blinking once, twice, three times to wake herself up from her thoughts, she opened the heavy door – a loud _creak_ sounded through the mostly-empty street – and stepped into the warmth and joy.

_Joy_? Éponine scoffed. _Strange, with that Enjolras man at the helm of the operation._

She shook her head again, scolding herself. Marius wouldn't like it.

_Marius doesn't love you, so what does it matter?_ a voice in her mind prodded.

She stubbornly ignored it as she trudged up the steps.

Her eyes widened automatically at the shouts, and she turned suddenly and left the café at once. There was certainly joy, that was no doubt.

The revolution was to start the next day.

"Marius," Éponine found herself whispering. Not 'Monsieur', as she constantly called him to his face (despite their first three years of friendship being spent with him trying to convince her to drop the title – she refused). Not 'Pontmercy', his name the few times she had spoken about him to his parents. Just _Marius_.

She ran home, clutching her brown cap in her hands, wringing it like a wet rag.

_ Marius._


	4. Anguish

_(A/N: Alright, here we are. Start of the Revolution. Warning: This is where canon really flies out the window. So if you guys prefer the story per Victor Hugo, or per musical, or whatever, that's fine! I completely understand. Onwards ~)_

Chapter 4: Anguish

Éponine's head itched.

It was likely the lice from the bed she had visited not too long before, or it could have been a nervous tick. Either way, she reached up to scratch under her cap every couple of seconds.

She contemplated the feeling of trousers around her legs as she chewed her lip. They made her feel... constricted? Trapped? There was something strange about it, having fabric between her thighs, making strange sounds as she walked. Éponine had been wearing skirts and simple dresses her whole life – even gowns, when she was younger. While the lower half of her body felt restricted when dressed as a man, Éponine herself felt...

Liberated.

No one looked at her like an object. Not a single lecherous glance was thrown her way. It was a life she wasn't quite used to, but if the Revolution was successful, perhaps she could pull it off. Run away from home. Dress as a man. Work, make money.

It was ridiculous, of course – but it instilled such a surge of confidence in Éponine that she had to fight to keep a straight face.

To her left was Courfeyrac; next to him was Jehan Prouvaire. Behind her was Joly, and Bahorel was on her right, wearing a cap almost identical to her own. None of them seemed to recognise her, despite knowing her relatively well and her being a regular to the meetings.

Really, it was only Enjolras she hadn't previously known – probably due to his lack of attempts to do much else than his studies and lead a fight against the government.

Despite the solemn occasion, and the fact that, really, she was only there to make sure Marius made it out unharmed (and, of course, due to her own beliefs, but she was very much like the rest of Paris, in that respect – cowardly and too afraid to risk what was dear to her. Which, in hindsight, really were just Marius and Gavroche, so she would likely be thrown into the fight either way), Éponine was quite proud of her disguise of sorts.

Of course, her younger brother, who was standing straight across from her on the other side of the street, was eyeing her strangely – but that could have just been the way the small amount of sun cast shadows across his face.

Marius stood next to the blonde devil, and for a moment, she felt betrayed, before she realised that her friend couldn't have had any idea she would be there. She couldn't tell him – he'd insist on her staying at home, come up with some noble speech that would make her knees buckle, and she would, as always, give in.

Didn't he realise she had to save him, for once? That this idea of government reform – as lovely and beautiful as it was – was impossible?

Of course he didn't. She had to be there, if the worst case scenario played out. Let her die, rather than he.

Éponine figured she'd be granted a free spot in Heaven just for leaving the man she loved for Cosette. It was the ultimate sacrifice. God had better realise it.

* * *

The excitement of the night before was gone, and instead, a nervous knot formed in Enjolras's throat. As the self-appointed leader of Les Amis, he couldn't show the smallest hint of hesitation.

He needed confidence. He needed faith. He needed the hope from that woman's smile, all those nights ago.

He quickly scanned the crowd. The elderly woman didn't seem to be in it.

Enjolras's attention was abruptly grabbed from his search when the sound of horseshoes against cobblestones, and wheels creaking as they bumped their way in and out of the street's many potholes.

General Lamarque's carriage.

If Enjolras had been nervous before, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling then. Every doubt and worry and improbable outcome he had imagined over the course of planning the attack was thrown back into his mind all at once, and he suddenly felt faint.

He _felt faint_.

That simple thought was all that it took for Enjolras to return to his old self. Théodore Enjolras didn't simply _feel faint_. He was a leader, brave, courageous. Men depended on him, and, especially on that day, he had to be the kind of man to depend upon.

With a careful, determined glance towards the mass of freckles next to him, Enjolras nodded once and received a single nod in reply.

This was the moment.

The first carriage passed, and then – chaos.

* * *

Éponine was fast – years of thievery had taught her to be light on her feet. She jumped over the corpses, scrambled past the wounded civilians.

The Revolution had begun, and it was so, _so_ much worse than she had expected.

She followed the mass of familiar men, and kept her eyes up from the ground, where some were lying already. Soon enough, she arrived at the café, in front of which furniture was being piled up – most of it donated from apartments nearby, people throwing chairs and tables and even a piano out their windows.

Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe the citizens would fight.

She kept the thought to herself.

After artfully dodging the remains of a cabinet falling from an apartment above her, Éponine scanned the crowd of people to track down Marius.

Wherever he was, she couldn't see him.

"Quit starin' and pick up a piece, yeah?" Feuilly shouted over his shoulder as he ran past her, holding a plank of wood from the cabinet close to his chest.

Suddenly feeling useless, Éponine did exactly as told, and grabbed a wooden wheel – leftovers of some carriage – running behind Bahorel and placing it onto the barricade.

In about a half hour – though to her it seemed like years – the barricade was complete. A marvelous heap of scraps and debris and everything imaginable was stacked up, so that the highest point was nearly at the same level as the apartment windows. Éponine had finally tracked down Marius – next to Enjolras, as if the two were stuck by glue – and Gavroche, to her dismay, had joined them.

Her younger brother looked eager to help, rushing around and volunteering for every task imaginable – but his face held something solemn, a sort of seriousness that no one his age should need to worry about. He looked older than his eleven years, and it struck Éponine that perhaps Gavroche was wiser than she was when it came to the fight.

She was there to protect a man she loved – a noble cause, but selfish. Gavroche was there because he believed in the Republic, in the Patria.

With a last, fleeting look towards Marius, Éponine picked up a long-abandoned pistol from the muddy ground and stuck it into her trousers.

* * *

Even with the knowledge that he could die at any moment, Enjolras felt alive.

As he had long believed, and long repeated to the endless questions directed towards his love life (or lack thereof), the Patria was his mistress. He loved her, fought for her, and would die for her without a moment's hesitation.

He was born for this – the glory and adrenaline of battle, fighting for what he loved. His country, his people. Nothing was more important, nothing would ever be important.

Despite all of that, however, his heart was heavy.

Just the small battle at Lamarque's procession had caused eleven wounded for les Amis, and Joly – medical student, and makeshift doctor for l'ABC – was already struggling to work on all of them alone. A woman who worked at a pub nearby volunteered to help him with his patients, and thus far, the load had improved.

As leader, Enjolras had to think ahead – what of the next round of injuries? What would happen then?

Seeing as one person had already decided to help, he presumed more would come.

_ That'll show Thénardier._

But now was not the time to think of such things. Now, the barricade was prepared. There was no time to think.

Enjolras gathered the men and improvised a speech – anger and determination rang in every syllable, as he raved about keeping faith and never giving up. The men looked grim, but the words seemed to instill _something_ in them. If not hope, it was some other sort of driving force, and even Grantaire seemed to have put away the bottle for a few moments, in favour of listening to Enjolras speak.

A few moments later – it only seemed a few moments, really – the captain of the offending troops seemed to counter a speech, yet another person bringing Enjolras's doubts into light, speaking of people who wouldn't help.

Hadn't he proved them wrong already? Hadn't citizens provided the rubble to build the barricade? Hadn't the woman from the pub come to tend to the hurt? Hadn't the older man come and volunteered himself as a spy?

Enjolras nearly laughed at his words. _Give up your guns or die?_ He'd choose death over giving up his arms, if it meant France would be free. With a smirk audible in his voice, he managed to convince his army of the truth – they would see the people rise.

It was inspiring. It was motivational. It might as well have been straight out of a children's tale teaching the importance of valour, but Enjolras would be damned if the clichés weren't perfect for that exact moment.

Someone called out once the enemy had retreated – the envoy had returned. Guns were aimed at him, even once he had given them the news he had overheard while he hid on the opposing side.

Starving them out.

No fight the next morning.

"Liar!"

Enjolras could have kissed the boy.

Perhaps not, but, he was extremely grateful towards Gavroche.

After tying up Inspector Javert, Enjolras returned to possibly the most shocking scene he could have dreamed up since the first shot was fired hours (practically _years_) ago that morning.

Marius was cradling a familiar heap of skin and bones in his arms.

* * *

She had lied. She felt pain.

Éponine only wanted to open her eyes. The hurt in her side (the result of a gunshot wound or a stab, she couldn't remember) complained with every one of her ragged breaths. Last she could remember – and she couldn't remember much without her mind burning like a fire – she was wrapped in Marius's embrace, his heartbeat pounding against her back, hurried from worry. After that was a hazy sort of darkness – she could hear some things, her heart slowed to a painful sort of snail's pace, and then she finally passed out.

She could possibly remember Enjolras – she thought it was him, anyhow – saying some things about Éponine Thénardier being the first to fall, and she desperately wanted to correct him. She hadn't fallen. She was alive, she could hear him, she was in pain, but otherwise all was well.

After that, nothing came to mind, no matter how hard she tried to remember.

Her eyelids seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and she couldn't flutter them, let alone open them completely. She heard before she could see – though that proved not to be difficult in the least.

Gunshots, weeping, the sound of bones breaking, shouting, screeches, and everywhere she heard anguish.

She fought harder to open her eyes, and still, nothing.

Next, she could smell – gunpowder burning, the stench of blood, fire burning somewhere far-off.

It all only resulted in making her head hurt more.

How long had it been? A few minutes? A few hours? A few days?

She vaguely heard a voice in the background – if she had to pick a name to associate with it, she would have chosen Joly – urgently shouting something, though she couldn't make out his words.

There was another voice, further off, though Éponine had no hope of recognising it.

And then, a disturbingly familiar voice. So far away, yet Éponine could hear every word, every breath he took. At the first syllable, she finally opened her eyes frantically, and fought to move the rest of her body, despite the pain that shot through every nerve. She seemed paralysed, and no matter how she fought, how she sobbed, how she screamed, no one seemed to come, and the shot came and went.

_Just like that._

Her brother was dead.

* * *

The only thing he knew was that, by some miracle, he was alive.

Enjolras was always a strong man, both physically and emotionally, but when he picked himself up from the floor of the destroyed café, he wept immediately.

Just in that room, he saw Combeferre, Jehan, Bossuet, and Grantaire – the memory of Grantaire's death hit him, and he felt himself break.

_"Do you permit it?"_

Stepping around the corpses, closing their eyes and arranging them to look more comfortable, as if they were only sleeping, all the while keeping a hand on his bullet wound – or, more precisely, one of them – Enjolras was transformed into a new being. No longer a man, but a ghost of a soul, wandering around the lifeless bodies of his brothers.

He managed to escape the café, but landed in the street – there was blood flowing like a river, and more bodies than he even remembered fighting.

Suddenly, he couldn't tell the difference between those in uniform and those with a blue, red, and white circle on their lapels. Perhaps Gavroche was right in saying people were only equal when they were dead.

He heard wailing.

Someone was alive.

He followed the voice, desperately running after it in hopes of finding one of his brothers, an Ami, perhaps Marius or Courfeyrac or –

Yes, Enjolras was certain he was dead, for how else would he be able to see ghosts?

* * *

She still couldn't move, and Éponine was convinced it had been hours now, if not days. The sun had definitely risen once, and Joly was now nowhere to be found.

She hadn't stopped sobbing since Gavroche fell.

She knew it was Gavroche, who else could it have been? He was singing a song when she heard the shot, and his voice had that unmistakable street accent. He was the only person in her family left who she could trust and speak to, no matter how much he resented her for staying with their parents.

She was truly on her own then – no Marius, no Azelma, and no Gavroche. No one.

Éponine only quieted when she felt a hand on her back. She looked up to see none other than the leader of the Revolution himself, his face screwed up as tears ran down them as well. She wanted to shout at him, hate him, kick and punch and hurt him for allowing this to happen. For convincing all of these people to do it in the first place.

Instead, she allowed him to sit next to her, and he took her hand, and they sobbed.

* * *

He had no idea how much time had passed, but eventually, both Enjolras and Éponine had emptied themselves of their tears.

There was a long silence.

He fought to find something to say, something eloquent, like he had only a few days ago in front of les Amis to instill faith in them.

Instead, what he said was "You were right."

Silence followed.

"No... I – I shouldn't have said those things," came the girl's broken response.

He shook his head. "You were right. Paris didn't help. The Patria is dead."

More silence.

It was an eternity until Éponine replied – so long Enjolras had forgotten what she was replying to. "She isn't."

"What?"

"The Patria. She isn't dead, is she? She can't die."

Enjolras took a moment to think over her words. "She can't be alive. We've been defeated."

"Weren't there... other barricades?" The smallest sliver of hope crawled into her words, and Enjolras was amazed she could come up with any.

"We were the last one."

"Oh."

Silence again.

Éponine broke it only a few seconds later. "Gavroche. How did... how did he go?"

Enjolras hesitated and directed his eyes to his knees.

"S'il te plaît... I need to know."

He looked up – though not at Éponine – at the sound of the informal version of _you_. It made their conversation seem a little too personal, though, to be fair, it hadn't been anything but personal from the moment he found her.

He cleared his throat. "Gavroche died valiantly," Enjolras said, his voice gaining the smallest amount of its former bravado. Éponine nodded, though it was clear that wasn't enough of a reply. He cleared his throat again and scratched the back of his neck. "We were running low on cartridges. For the guns. He slipped away when we weren't looking and began picking up the cartridges from the dead soldiers. An enemy... they shot at him. Three times. It hit twice." He waited for Éponine to say something, and when she didn't, he continued. "If he hadn't done that... we would have been defeated much earlier."

Éponine remained silent for another couple of seconds before replying, "He was always brave. He was my brother."

"I know."

"He was much better than I was."

Enjolras should have said something, something to convince her otherwise, but he said nothing instead.

_(A/N: Wow, I never do notes as the end of chapters, but OH WELL. This was a pretty hard chapter to write, and one of the longest, and I'm not too happy with how it turned out... I needed both Éponine and Enjolras to survive to continue the story, and I feel like it was unrealistic, what with Enjolras suffering seven bullet wounds. I'm also worried that this might have all happened too fast? If you guys have any criticism – and I mean ANY – don't hesitate to leave a review or PM me, and I might try to improve this. Thanks ~)_


	5. Mourning

_(A/N: I have the sinking feeling you're all going to hate me._

_On that happy note, on we go ~ Also, sorry for taking so long, I was having trouble with this chapter and I had a sort of writer's block. It's also probably one of the shortest chapters, so I'm hoping this is just enough to tide you all over, until my next update. Thank you for the reviews, as always! You're all the sweetest readers I could hope to have.)_

Chapter 5: Mourning

They slept on the ground that night.

Neither got much rest – Enjolras wasn't accustomed to the cold corners of alleys, for one thing. For another, retellings of every wound and memories of each death plagues him every time he shut his eyes. Judging by the constant shifting next to him, he could presume it was just as difficult for Éponine.

He couldn't help but hold a grudge against the girl. After all, she had lost one brother – he had lost all of his. She was unconscious and losing blood when he was out, fighting the rest of the battle, standing until the end...

_Loosing blood._ Enjolras glanced at the blood-stained rag tied around his chest – similar to the one around Éponine's middle – torn from his shirt, the cleanest corner they could manage to find. They soaked the rags in absinthe, in the hopes to keep infection away. But despite their hardest efforts, he could almost feel the bacteria creeping into his blood, flowing in his veins, reaching every extremity of his body.

If they didn't get to the hospital quickly, they'd be doomed.

Of course, what hospital would take them? He was a known rebel. His name was now whispered in the streets. Perhaps they would take Éponine, but she was a street girl, and it was unlikely that anyone but the nuns would take her in. Besides, after the previous battle, the hospital was likely full to the brim, with nowhere for them.

Éponine shifted again, moaning lightly in her not-quite-asleep state. They'd have to find a solution, quickly.

* * *

The sun rose.

Or, at least, she assumed so. It was raining again (it was always raining in Paris), and thick clouds blocked the light. But it wasn't night anymore, and therefore, Éponine and Enjolras left their small alley and continued.

She wasn't sure where they were headed, but instead of attempting to figure it out, she watched Enjolras walk. He held none of his former pride, confidence, near-arrogance, but limped slightly, as if faith was a limb attached to his body that had been torn off.

Their hands were still clasped together, though both grips were hardly deserving of the title. Their fingers were positioned so that the other's wouldn't fall, but so loosely that they were, quite literally, simply hanging there. Éponine found the sight of her hand being held – the term being used loosely – to be of more comfort than that of the strong, valiant Enjolras limping, and so she kept her eyes on that.

The few people on the streets seemed to know exactly who they were – either the blood on their clothing or the proud circle, with a dot of blue or a ring of red around the edge, mangled and stained but somehow still clinging to Enjolras's lapel was enough to confirm the pair's identities. She was certain they didn't know who she was, and was partially glad for it, for though they might not treat a friend of a rebel well, they would treat a Thénardier worse.

_Friend?_ Éponine noticed the word pop into her thoughts and furrowed her brow. They were hardly friends. Of course, their relationship may have... improved? Changed, definitely, due to their situation, but they weren't anything near friends. They had barely exchanged a word since he had told her about Gavroche's death – not exactly friend-like behaviour.

Her attention was brought back to their meandering when she nearly crashed into Enjolras. She blinked to clear her mind and found three things: first, they were on a bridge – not the fateful Pont d'Arcole of that evening that seemed like centuries ago, but they were on a smaller pedestrian bridge. Second, the Notre Dame stood in front of them, huge and imposing and everything that represented God to Éponine. Surely she believed in him – it was the only thing she really could believe in – but on the rarest occasions, when she attended mass, she never allowed herself a trip to the cathedral. She escaped to a smaller chapel, usually muttered a quick prayer, and would be on her way. It was rare Éponine ever even came to that part of the city, and now that she was there, with pigeons scattering the cobblestone and barefooted girls desperately running around, offering violets for sale to everyone who passed, she felt like she was seeing a Paris she had never seen before – the one of stories and fables, the one of the dreams of country boys, wanting to make a life in the big city.

The last thing she noticed was Enjolras's sudden lack of movement. He stood still as a statue, his eyes focused on something on the other side of the Seine. Éponine shifted in order to see what he was staring at, but her eyes landed on nothing in particular. She turned to observe his expression – or lack thereof. There was only something desperate in his bright green-blue eyes. "M'sieur?"

His eyes snapped to her, as if he had wanted to keep his eyes on that nothingness on the riverbank, as if she had woken him from the most wonderful dream he had never wanted to escape from. "Yes?" he said, perhaps a bit too harshly, but the anger was gone almost as quickly as it had come.

Éponine felt her temper flare in the pit of her chest, only to be cooled a moment later. "Nothing," she replied, biting on the thin skin layering the inside of her cheek to keep herself from letting her anger take over. This was definitely not the moment.

* * *

He _must_ have been seeing ghosts.

Enjolras truly had no idea where he was dragging Éponine off to, or why their hands were still (relatively speaking) entangled together, but he was beyond the point of caring. He walked to where his feet took him, and, as usual, it involved the river.

The Seine was traditionally a place for thought and serenity for Enjolras, though he usually went in the evening, rather than in broad daylight. The river wasn't exactly beautiful – perhaps somewhere in the countryside it was, but Enjolras had never left the city before – and the peace it provided him had been significantly disturbed during his last trip, but somehow he ended up above the rushing water, facing the cathedral. He had been there quite a few times – most recently, when his older sister married, though that was three years prior, and she had died in childbirth a year afterwards. Most spoke of the glory the edifice represented (poets and the like, people Enjolras tended to think wasted their words, rather than just getting the point across), but to him it simply represented God, and the spikes and the gargoyles and every slightly marred inch of stone only served to represent the flaws of God further.

Halfway through the bridge, he saw a head of unmistakeably curly, dark hair, and pale skin, enough to resemble paper, only coloured by the red on the man's cheeks thanks to the bottles of absinthe already consumed. Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks, but a moment later, the figure was gone.

It wasn't the infamous Roland Grantaire, that wasn't possible. Enjolras had seen his dead body, covered in blood and bullets, had held his hand as he died – when he should have died.

_Should have died._

_Should have_ _died._

He didn't know how long he must have been standing there, but although he knew Grantaire wasn't there, that he was never going to be there, Enjolras could almost see him. Laughing, rolling his eyes at his speeches about overthrowing the government, giving Gavroche some of his absinthe (the boy was remarkably talented at holding his liquor). And for a moment, Enjolras's heart didn't hurt. It didn't feel heavy. He felt almost cheerful, like it was all a nightmare he had imagined out of thin air.

And then Éponine spoke. He could have been too harsh, for that fraction of a moment, but once the image of Grantaire was gone forever, the heaviness of his heart was back, and the cheer was never to return. He lost his anger, and kept his hand in hers, and walked with her into the church with the feeling of impending doom washing over him.

* * *

Éponine hated the quiet of a church. It was always dead silent, and she was sure she would have been able to hear a feather drop to the floor. If God was so glorious, shouldn't they have been celebrating his glory? Wouldn't that include the singing of hymns, preferably not in Latin, and in a language she understood?

_Sinful thoughts,_ she reminded herself.

Sometimes, religion was truly tiresome.

They were swept out of the silence soon enough, however – a priest soon caught sight of them, and, as he so eloquently put it, "a revolutionary and his penniless whore do _not_ belong in the Notre Dame de Paris!"

She nearly corrected him on the penniless whore bit – she wasn't _his_ whore, after all – but she didn't have nearly enough energy.

Despite being kicked out, they continued drifting about the cobblestone in front of the cathedral, and eventually found themselves sitting on some stone bench. Éponine watched a young girl with vibrant red hair, clean and flowing behind her under a bonnet, as she tossed bread crumbs towards the pigeons.

She was reminded horribly of a million things: Azelma when they were children – Azelma, with the hair that had a reddish tint in the sunlight, who wore her bonnets indoors and out, back when their family could afford such hats; Marius, with his red hair and freckles and a smile that, quite literally, reached from ear to ear; Gavroche, who ran before he could walk, who likely would have found the girl pretty and made up some excuse to charm her into giving him a few coins. Tears sprung to her eyes, shocking her with their sudden appearance, and she blinked them away. Éponine hated crying, and crying in public was worse than anything. She had had enough crying to last her a lifetime –

A blonde head emerged from the church doors, and Éponine's eyes widened as she suddenly shouted out, "Alouette!"

* * *

Cosette wasn't all that. Sure, she was beautiful, and her eyes were blue enough, and her hair was shiny enough, but she was far too... perfect. Every move she made and every breath she took was a perfect example of a fair maiden from some medieval poem.

Again, poets. Enjolras couldn't stand them.

Other than a quick introduction, he wasn't offered much detail on Éponine's previous acquaintance with Cosette, but he connected the pieces soon enough. It appeared to him that they were children together, and the awkward way they spoke suggested some sort of event in the past, a disagreement of some sort.

Perhaps they had fought over Marius? The idea was possible. Éponine was head over heels for him, and he could only assume Cosette was, too (though he wondered what either saw in him – Marius was, after all, quite a bit of a twat).

His eyes widened and he registered several things at once.

Cosette's bloodshot eyes.

Her pale skin.

Her black garb.

"What happened?" Enjolras blurted out, talking over Éponine's voice, his face suddenly pallid and worry etched on every inch of skin.

Cosette seemed to understand exactly what he meant, and began tearing up already, but Éponine whipped her head around, her hair hitting his arm as she did so. She didn't say anything, but her eyes asked a million questions, and Enjolras – maybe not as gently as he should have – took her arm and led her, with Cosette following them and wiping her eyes.

They eventually ended up in some alley, and it was clear that Cosette wasn't comfortable with the setting (he assumed it must have been something to do with her bourgeoisie upbringing), but Éponine was struggling in his grip, despite her lack of strength (to be fair, he wasn't at the top of his game, either), and so he let her go there. "What is it?" Éponine almost spat, fixing her eyes in a deadly glare directed at Enjolras and keeping a hand on her bullet wound in her side all at once. Enjolras was almost intimidated by her display. _Almost._

Cosette was crying then, completely weeping, and they let her for a few moments, before she sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand (quite unladylike – it was a gesture that seemed out of place on such a woman). Cosette swallowed before she spoke. "They're dead. Marius. Papa. Both are dead."

_(A/N: A few explanations, because I felt clever writing some of this stuff and just want to make sure I'm actually clever:_

_- The title of the chapter, "Mourning", is kind of a sick pun - it's the morning after the battle, and they are mourning. Hahaha, Sophie you cruel and horrid person, I know I suck._

_- "Roland", the name I chose as a first name for Grantaire, was a legendary hero who served Charlemagne, one of the first French kings and the man who pretty much started education outside of religion; i.e. boys who weren't going to become monks could go to school. I realise Enjolras is all anti-monarchy, but I figured the way Charlemagne taught the people was kind of similar, and Grantaire definitely looked up to our dear Enjy, just as Roland did to Charlemagne._

_- I feel like Éponine wouldn't be too into the idea of religion, and the way it controlled people's lives, especially in those times (I mean, I'm a proud Atheist, so "To love another person is to see the face of God"? No thanks), but since it was the XIX century and there was barely anything scientific going on and whatever, I think she believes in God, only because she wants something to believe in. There isn't much else for her to believe in otherwise._

_- Enjolras assumes Cosette isn't comfortable in the alley due to her "bourgeoisie upbringing", since she looks very much like she belongs in that class now, but it's truly because it reminds her too much of her time with the Thénardiers. Just making sure we're on the same page!)_


	6. Deafening

_(A/N: I'm sorry this took so long! Schoolwork's been a pain lately, and that's a priority. This chapter is probably going to be on the more tedious and boring side, so bear with me. It's just going to wrap up some loose ends before we continue with the story. Thanks again for reviews, favourites, and follows – you guys are great!)_

Chapter 6: Deafening

What Enjolras didn't understand, was why Jean Valjean let Javert go free that night at the barricade. He had connected the dots well enough – Cosette had described his physical appearance with intricate detail – and as she told them what she herself had heard, he couldn't seem to find a single flaw in Valjean.

She explained to him that she was raised alongside Éponine and, with the brunette's permission, admitted to being treated horribly while with them. Cosette was then adopted by Valjean after her mother died, and since he had then confessed his identity to Inspector Javert, they lived in hiding for nearly her entire childhood. They were to move to England the day after the battle at the barricade, but Cosette found a letter in their apartment the next morning, from Marius, and she could only guess he had gone to fight alongside her love.

Apparently, the next thing she knew was that they fished Javert's body out of the river, and found on his desk in his flat a note, explaining how he witnessed Valjean's heroic deed in saving the boy his daughter loved, but killed them both all the same.

It had been three days since Cosette told them.

They were staying with her in Marius's grandfather's home – as much as he opposed to the idea of a revolutionary and a street whore under his roof, he couldn't say no to Cosette's pleading – and had gotten their wounds relatively cleaned out by a doctor who had been hired by the girl. Enjolras hadn't seen Éponine since they arrived at the Pontmercy house, but as he had more wounds to be taken care of, he was almost banished from the rest of the house, so he could get some sleep.

He would never get sleep again.

He had been inadvertently clinging to a sliver of hope that Marius was alive ever since he couldn't find his body on the battlefield, and now the last and dearest of his brothers was gone. Irreversibly, horribly gone. There was nothing Enjolras could do about it. Guilt built up in his chest, and every moment he spent alone in his bed, with Doctor Paquet hovering over Éponine in the next room, he heard their voices and saw their faces in the air surrounding him.

At least when the doctor was with him, he could be slightly distracted – even if it meant his wounds crying out in pain as they were gently being treated.

The pain from the bullets and the cuts and the bruises wasn't nearly as bad as the pain his conscience felt. The guilt resonated with every breath, and every moment he spent awake, he relived the last days. Not the last days on the barricade – the men weren't themselves then. They were disheartened and melancholy, and a heavy mood cast on all of them. No, Enjolras remembered them at their most alive – Joly and his constant need to keep clean, Bossuet and his fans that he was always trying to sell to the few women who attended, Jehan and his soft voice, making up new rhymes. Combeferre and his words of peace, despite his allegiance to the cause, Courfeyrac's stories of his women between the sheets, Gavroche hopping into Café Musain straight from the elephant. He even remembered Marius's ridiculous stories about Cosette, and Grantaire's flushed face after a few glasses of absinthe.

The rush of happiness was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. Reality stabbed Enjolras like a knife in the side, reminding him that it was _he_ that pushed them into this, _he_ who was the leader, _he_ who they trusted to render them victorious, _he_ who they believed in. It was his fault. If he had only kept quiet, or waited until a better, safer opportunity came, perhaps they would all be alive. Perhaps they would have won.

'Perhaps' was such a horribly imprecise word.

* * *

He was dead.

Her best friend, the man she loved, the only person left who had truly ever _cared_ about her. Dead.

Just the word was so final – a single syllable, harshly resonating with the most inner core of Éponine's body each time it resurfaced in her brain. _(Dead.)_ She winced, and not solely due to Doctor Paquet's fingers prodding at her cuts and bruises – and that gaping hole in her side, so close to her stomach, but miraculously far enough. _(Dead.)_

She could have been killed, too. _(Dead.)_ She nearly was, after all. Unconscious for hours, paralysed for more. _(Dead.)_ If there was a God – something Éponine was seriously reconsidering due to recent discoveries – he, or she, or it had no heart, no compassion, nothing. _(Dead.)_ If God could feel something, anything, she would be killed instead of him, if only for Cosette's sake. _(Dead.)_

_Cosette_. The name brought a whole new wave of thoughts, some of which weren't particularly welcome, all of which served to increase Éponine's migraine. She shifted uncomfortably, and Paquet looked up, his eyebrows creased into a worried arch. It reminded her of Joly, the medical student with a fear of germs, and her heart squeezed again. _(Dead.)_

_But what of Musichetta?_ The thought nearly got her to sit up, if Paquet weren't in her way and if the pain weren't too much. Musichetta, the girl she had only seen through Joly's words, who spoke of her in with such a tone of voice that the love was heard in every syllable, every sound. Who was a friend of Les Amis, but never attended meetings – Éponine had never met her – and who would support them by donating money and services rather than strength. She had sewn all of the flags, all of the lapel badges, everything. Joly worshipped the woman as he worshipped no other. Who would worship her now? _(Dead.)_

With a blink, the stab came again. He was gone.

How could he be gone? How could someone just be there, be such a constant for so long, and then cease to exist? His smile that was too wide for his face, the freckles that invaded every spare inch of his skin, his red hair that would rarely cooperate. All of that was gone and _dead_ and never coming back.

Éponine tried to remember the sound of his voice.

She couldn't.

* * *

Sleep was impossible, and so Enjolras stayed awake and read books.

It kept his mind on new topics, and as he explored the Pontmercy family library (the content of which was mostly brought to his bedside by Paquet's newly hired nurse, Mademoiselle Lagloire), he found himself hovering towards the fables and fairy tales, in hopes of "happily ever after" endings.

It was preposterous. Horribly so.

He could afford being preposterous, just this once. He deserved it.

The Grimm and Andersen tales were much darker than what he wanted to hear, but something drew him to them, even as he determined to remain as light-hearted as possible. But the narration in his mind would take Bahorel's voice, or ask a question in the same sort of rhetoric, sarcastic way as was typically Grantaire's style, or in such quiet tones that it could be exactly Jehan speaking to him.

He put down the book, shuffled further down the bed, defiantly ignoring the pain in his side, and stared at the ceiling.

Hopefully _that_ was enough to distract him.

* * *

It had been six days, the summer sun was shining through the curtains, Éponine was (according to Paquet) showing steady signs of healing, and she hadn't seen Cosette since she brought them to the Pontmercy home. The blonde had ruined so much in Éponine's life – _she_ was the one who had been lucky enough to be adopted into a better life, _she_ was the one who used to have to deal with Mme Thénardier's beatings and shouts, which were then directed towards Azelma and Éponine upon Cosette's departure, _she_ was the one who stole the man she loved.

Éponine had every right to hate Cosette Fauchlevant, and hate her she shall.

Except Cosette had saved her and Enjolras from death, and gotten her a doctor, and settled her into such a fine house that Éponine was afraid to touch anything, and everything there smelled of him, and everything she looked at reminded her of him, and _it's him it's him it's him._

Éponine groaned and worried at her lip, squinting from the suddenly too bright light peeping through the lacy drapes.

She wondered how long it was until she could walk.

* * *

The eleventh day of their stay rolled around, and Éponine was brought to Enjolras's room.

Mademoiselle Lagloire suggested that, as soon as either of them was able to be moved, they would sit alone and share, talk about what they called "The Incident". Neither of them had spoken more than four words during their time there, and apparently, such was a cause for worry. Éponine was carried by Doctor Paquet (who seemed to agree that it was a good idea, for whatever reason), and there she was, sitting in an armchair, tucked away under a pile of pillows and blankets.

The idea was a load of dung, if you asked him. What were they supposed to say?

Enjolras chewed on the miniscule skin inside his cheek, letting the silence deafen him, as he stubbornly refused to talk.

Éponine inspected her nails.

He cleared his throat.

She bit her lip.

He scratched the nape of his neck.

"Have you been reading?"

Enjolras nearly jumped at the sudden voice, though it was quiet, and even rougher than usual out of disuse. He stared at the blank expression on the woman's face for a moment before dropping his head in a single nod.

Éponine picked up the first book on the table – _Les contes et récits des frères Grimm_ – and opened the heavy tome to a random page, empty eyes staring unmoving at a word. After a few more minutes of silence, she said, "I can't read too well. I know a few things. Trivial words. Chat and maison and such things."

She was lying, he knew it. Marius had taught her to read, well enough that she could read a page of his school text without a stammer. He had told Enjolras about it once, talking about how she put up a fight, but he managed to get her to sacrifice the time for it.

Nevertheless, he replied, with a voice as scratchy as hers, "I can read some."

Silence.

"Will you?"

He nodded. She bent over as far as she could (he could see her eyes wince slightly with the leftover pain and had to resist pushing her back into the chair) and placed the book close to him, so he wouldn't need to reach to pick it up.

Silence.

He took a breath.

* * *

When he read, he sounded like a river, his sentences flowing and his voice changing from gentle to furious and back again. It made sense, with his past as an orator, constantly speaking and keeping people's attention. It was incredible, how he managed to do that, for his face remained of the same marble as always, and his eyes were expressionless. He put all of his emotion into his voice.

In a way, it made Éponine's heart break even more.

She could lose herself in his words, how his lips shaped every sound, how his eyes skimmed across the page. He made the story come alive, despite his stony expression, and made it seem real, perfect, true.

Enjolras spoke to her of Cendrillon, a beautiful young girl, enslaved by her stepmother and stepsisters. She grew up with more grace and elegance than her sisters, despite the grime of the street, and, after an ordeal about her being forbidden to go to the prince's ball but going anyhow, manages to capture his heart and live a life out of the slums.

Éponine hated that story.

She always saw the characters with the same faces, even when she was a little girl and her mother told her the tale before she fell asleep. A blonde girl, with wide, blue eyes and beauty even at her young age, covered in the dust and mud of the street, would take the place of Cendrillon. One stepsister would have auburn hair, brushed and cleaned and with a blue ribbon tying it back, and the other would have dark brown hair, with her own red ribbon. The stepmother would look horrendously familiar, with her own gap-toothed smile – something that had seemed so endearing when Éponine was young.

The prince didn't have a face for years, but he did eventually. It was gone again, and all she could remember was freckles.


	7. Unnamed

_(A/N: Again, reaaaally slow update. Sorry! I have a few big tests coming up, so I've been studying more than writing. As usual, thank you so much for reviews, favourites, and follows – I just broke 100 follows – and on we go.)_

Chapter 7: Unnamed

It had been three and a half weeks, total.

Enjolras read to Éponine every day, but that was as close to speaking to each other as they got. Neither brought up the barricade, neither talked of the empty chasm both felt in their chest. Occasionally, Enjolras would look up from whichever tale they were reading, and study his companion's face through his mussed-up curls. Her eyes were void of emotion, often watching out the window; she always fiddled with the blanket Mlle Lagloire draped over her; she didn't seem to know what to do with the nightgown and housecoat she was put in every night. It was as if the fabric was too soft, too rich, too clean. She hesitated to touch it, winced when it brushed against her skin.

His heart filled with pity.

Doctor Paquet allowed Éponine to walk now, if only between her room and Enjolras's, and he himself was able to take a total of sixteen shaky steps from his bed to the bookshelf, gathering novels without the nurse's help. He hated himself for being so weak, so helpless, for having to rely on everyone else. (_Once_, the demon of his mind reminded him, _men relied on you, and look where that got them_.)

Together, Enjolras and Éponine had almost exhausted the Pontmercy home's library (Lagloire brought the books that weren't in his chambers), but there were a handful they hadn't yet touched. Mostly poetry – after reading some translations of Shakespeare's sonnets, he had discovered Éponine wasn't very fond of verse. There was, however, one tome he had found squished between two others – a novel by De Lisle de Salles, one he hadn't read, but just by glancing at the title, the familiar tale washed over him, memories of going to the opera with his family to see a work featuring the same characters flooding back.

_The opera._ He very nearly groaned. Enjolras still stood firm in his beliefs, and although he was much too young to know better when his parents and sisters dragged him to see _The Marriage of Figaro_ alongside former members of the bourgeoisie, he despised that part of his past. His entire childhood, from his father spitting at beggars in the street to his mother insisting he marries a girl of "proper upbringing", as she put it, was exactly what turned him into the revolutionary he became. Something so simple as a trip to the opera reminded him of watching helplessly as his elder sisters laughed at old men grovelling for bread brought him back to his values, reminded him of who he was now.

He grabbed the clothbound book from the bookcase, hobbling back to his bed, sparing a glance at Éponine along the way. Her eyes were empty as ever, her skin paler than what was considered healthy, her gaze settled on something outside, though not focused on it, just resting on nothing in particular. He wondered if she could hear a word he said.

(The demon of his mind wondered why _she_ was so mute, if it were him who lost every last person he cared for.)

Enjolras opened the book, his ears taking in the creaking sound of the cover being opened for the first time in years, and without another look towards the girl in the chair, he began.

* * *

Éponine never liked her name. Her mother had a love for romances and chivalrous characters with tons of nobility to spare. Her name was much too fancy for her, especially when she was living in the street.

Her name may have fit her in this house, but she herself did not fit.

Her sister, Azelma, had an equally ridiculous name – it derived from the name of the wife of some warrior who fought against Napoleon – and only Gavroche had had a semi-normal name, thanks to their father putting his foot down in terms of naming his first son.

"Éponine" always seemed like such a poetic name to her, something from the likes of mythology or whatever Latin or Greek rubbish students were constantly going on about. It didn't suit her; it seemed like the type of name one would give a girl of the bourgeoisie – one with rich, thick hair, and clean, unblemished skin, who didn't feel a twist in her chest whenever her hands brushed by some lace or whenever she saw someone with a tuft of red hair from the window. That was "Éponine", but it wasn't _her_.

She wasn't quite listening to Enjolras as he read, but a story shaped out in her mind as the words flowed out – a man, a Roman officer, someone named Sabinus, began a rebellion, his failure resulting in deaths and easy defeat. He faked his own death, and was known only to his wife, who remained faithful and pretended to be widowed to keep his identity safe. Eventually, however, they were discovered, and were arrested and brought to Rome. He was condemned to execution, and she pleaded with the judge, insisting he change his mind, and berated him until she was ordered to be executed by her husband's side.

It was all very touching, truly, but it hardly lifted her spirits.

Not that much could, considering the circumstances. Éponine hadn't said more to Enjolras since the night she asked him to read for her. He hadn't said anything in return, and for that, she wasn't sure if she was thankful or resentful. Perhaps she was healing in silence, as Doctor Paquet kept insisting. Perhaps she needed to speak about it, as Mlle Lagloire said.

Suddenly, silence brought her out of her thoughts. She turned her gaze from the scene outside the window, hazel eyes meeting blue, and she found that she couldn't look away. The first time he had read for her, she watched him, and he conveyed nothing on his face – no tears, no laughter, no life. She hadn't bothered to look again. But Éponine now saw absolutely everything Enjolras had ever felt, in a simple look. She saw love, fear, courage, shame, defiance, hesitation, patience, fury, in a single blue stare.

Suddenly, although she didn't realise it herself, there was just a bit of life in her own eyes.

He was holding up the cover of the book – evidently he had finished the tale – and she could read it, even from afar, even though she had told him she couldn't read a word. _Éponine_, the title read. _Par De Lisle de Salles._

A shiver ran down her spine.

* * *

A single spark came to her lifeless eyes, and Enjolras felt a weight leave his shoulders.

Despite everything, despite their lack of reconciliation from the incident before the barricade (how trivial it seemed), despite what they had gone through as they walked the streets of Paris bleeding out, he had learned to worry about her. He insisted it was just his need to keep another name off his list of people whose deaths he was responsible for – that list included names so dear to him, so familiar that they haunted his thoughts still, syllables shaping images of people, from Courfeyrac's laugh to Grantaire's drunken rambles.

They still wouldn't go away. He wasn't sure if they ever would.

That evening, Éponine departed to her own room at six and ate her dinner once she was settled in her own bed, as she normally would. Enjolras did the same, dining on some simple chicken broth, bread, and hard cheese. He still couldn't eat much without feeling sick, and so he only had about half of his soup and most of the cheese, leaving the bread aside. He would eat it in the morning, if it was still good.

He settled into his bed as painlessly as he could, shuffling slightly and wincing minimally. With the candlelight still flickering, and his eyelids drooping, he pulled out _Éponine_ and read as far as he could without dozing off, each word already familiar to him, even after just one reading before. He was the type of person who could read something once, twice, three times at most, and have it memorised almost flawlessly – a quality that proved useful when he was a student.

A gentle knock sounded at the door just when he was about to fall asleep, waking him back up. He replied with a tired "Come in", sounding more exasperated than much else, and was taken aback when the familiar brunette popped her head in, her own eyes tired and wanting rest.

"Théodore," she said quietly, as if she didn't dare speak louder than a whisper. Her voice was like sandpaper. "It means God's gift."

Like a gust of wind, she was gone.

He couldn't hope of catching sleep after that – another restless night of tossing and turning was in store. He shut his eyes and visions of a bloodied Marius appeared, Combeferre helping a man up before being shot in the back, Gavroche tossing the cartridges back and his song ending abruptly, Jehan banging on a door desperately and begging for help from the people inside, people who had so happily offered their furniture to construct the barricade, but wouldn't defend it once it was built.

She had remembered his Christian name. He had mentioned it to her once, so long ago – his memory strained to remember a time before the battle. It was the first night they had properly spoken, the night she had slapped him. They were on the bridge, they were speaking of... of what? He couldn't recall. It seemed so trivial now, centuries later (really only about a month).

Thoughts conflicted in his mind, each one battling over the other to take dominance – names, like Éponine and d'Arcole and Javert and Bossuet, and simple actions, like kill and weep and laugh and fight. He wondered, not for the first time, where he and his brunette companion stood in all of this chaos, the wreck left behind by their failure. If they could heal his beloved Patria, if France would ever pick herself up, if God's gift and Sabinus's faithful spouse could be those to cure the illness the nation suffered from – the killing disease of poverty and inequality.

His mind itched for the answer, but the answer never came.

* * *

It was unnamed.

Both she and Enjolras, whatever they had – there was no word for it. Friendship? Hardly. Acquaintance? Definitely not. She still insisted he was stupidly confident heading into the battle – he was the one who had caused the freckled boy's death, he was the reason her brother was gone forever, it was all him.

It was his fault, but damn it all, she couldn't resent him for long.

To Éponine, it was because of what they had gone through, how they had relied on each other so much after the barricade. It hadn't been easy. Everything turned back to that – herself and Enjolras, sleeping on the streets, wounds infecting and hearts empty. Faces of Gavroche, of Marius, of Grantaire (who she had always been fond of, despite only speaking to him once or twice) haunted her, day and night – she was certain it was the same for him.

What's more, he read to her daily, for hours on end. Whether or not she was listening, his voice was always there, something new to rely on. It was as if the words his lips formed were a new pair of crutches for a newly broken foot – she had to lean on them, but she was unsure nonetheless.

Last, very last, a detail she would never reveal, not even to herself – that look he had given her upon finishing the tale _Éponine_, the one that conveyed more emotion than the world had ever felt before had caught her and it refused to let go. It was so raw, so vulnerable that Éponine felt as if he were placing himself into her hands, knowing that she could break him so easily during that gut-wrenchingly open moment. Enjolras was anything but raw or vulnerable, but she saw it all, and she would swear upon those blue eyes next time she was to make a promise.

She didn't know if they were friends, companions, or just two lonely souls who had managed to find each other, like two atoms matching up and making up a bond; but she felt incredibly guilty, and most of all, afraid – afraid to know why, and afraid that she already knew.

* * *

Cosette looked as if she were dying. Her blonde hair was limp and unwashed, her black garb hanging off of unfed limbs. They weren't nearly as thin as Éponine's once were (she had gained a small amount of weight during their stay), but she was no longer the healthy woman she was only a month earlier.

He had only seen her for a moment – the doctor had kept the door cracked open as he checked up on Enjolras, and both he and Mlle Lagloire assumed he was asleep. Cosette and Marius's grandfather spoke in hushed tones, evidently believing the same, whispering small arguments. He couldn't hear everything, but Enjolras did pick up a few words – comments about "harbouring a republican and a common gutter whore" mostly from the elder's side. Cosette seemed to be defending them, insisting they stay only a week longer, just to make sure both had healed properly before being sent back out.

Enjolras couldn't suppress a shudder. As terrible as staying in the house would be, where he felt useless and only found respite in reading to a lifeless woman who could very well do so on her own, going back to the streets would be worse. Éponine was in her element in the alleys of Paris, but Enjolras was not – how was he supposed to lead a revolution, if he himself weren't able to think straight out of hunger?

_It may help, actually, to experience poverty firsthand _– Enjolras shook his head, banishing the thought quickly. The future of France did not rely on everyone being poor; it relied on everyone being wealthy.

With Doctor Paquet checking his blood pressure, the blonde man formed a goal, a mission, a single thought to strive towards: to heal. For both he and Éponine to heal. They would leave the house, but perhaps together they could leave Paris, and settle in a nearby town, far enough that he could assume a new identity and create a new uprising.

They would survive. After all, they had survived so much already.

* * *

Her heart hurt less.

She did not know how much less (for how does one calculate such things?), but she did know it hurt less. She still heard their voices when she was alone in her room, or even with Mlle Lagloire or Doctor Paquet, but her heart didn't scream and thrash and protest and sob at every moment.

It still did, but she was offered relief. Mostly, relief in the form of blue eyes and a smooth voice.

He rolled his Rs with such an educated air, pronounced Napoleon's name 'Buonaparte' rather than 'Bonaparte', in the style of the bourgeoisie, clearly a memento left over by his wealthy parents. He knew Latin and Greek, and she barely knew French. He could recite every one of Robespierre's works by heart, she struggled to remember her privileged childhood. He represented freedom, he was beauty, he was a future she craved and she needed – but one that hurt too much to imagine.

After all, what was a future without Marius?


End file.
